


Growing Pains

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [38]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:11:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6912283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan isn't having a good day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



The sun is shining, the city is bustling, and D’Artagnan is sulking. At least that’s what Anne calls it.

 _Sulking_.

As if he wasn’t within his rights to feel cheated by destiny when the love of his life doesn’t reciprocate his feelings.

 _So what_ if he’s several years younger than Constance? Of course he’s immature, compared to her. Of course he hasn’t figured out who he is yet. But he always thought he’d get there at somebody’s side - not carried, but supervised.

No … no, not _supervised_ , merely accompanied. Yes. Accompanied. As in companionship. Not alone.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being alone. He’d just much rather be with her, now that he knows she exists.

D’Artagnan sighs, and contemplates buying himself some ice cream. That always used to help when he was feeling down, but he’s tried that already. Apparently this is more of a booze situation.

Too bad it’s ten o’clock in the morning.

He huffs and pushes his bike along the sidewalk. While he was horribly busy for the last few weeks to the point that he was barely able to catch his breath, he only had one job this morning. That’s all done and over with, and now he has no idea what to do with himself.

He doesn’t want to go home. Anne would laugh at him again, while his parents would be quietly supportive as well as amused. He can’t deal with that today. All he wants to do is hole up somewhere and wallow.

Because visiting Constance’s shop the way he feels right now would be … wrong. He doesn’t want her to see him like this. That wouldn’t be fair. It’s not her fault after all. He can’t force her to want him, can’t guilt her into going out with him.

That’s not what he wants at all. Also, Anne would kill him.

So he goes to the park instead. It’s a fine morning, promising another sunny day at odds with his mood. Maybe he’ll see some dogs. He likes dogs. They’re far less complicated than people.

So he sits his butt down on a bench, his bike parked beside him, and watches other people’s lives pass him by. Not really riveting stuff, but the pair of corgis noodling all over the place is pretty cute.

D’Artagnan even manages a little smile, watching them.

“Well. Don’t you look pathetic.”

The voice is posh, and pitying, and d’Artagnan bristles. He _knows_ he’s looking pathetic, he doesn’t need some stranger to point it out to him.

“Listen, shithead,” he starts, turning his head. “Oh.”

It’s Athos de la Fère, carrying some kind of potted plant. Smiling at him. D’Artagnan swallows convulsively.

“Yes?” Athos asks when d’Artagnan fails to follow his opening line up with anything. “I am listening.”

D’Artagnan ducks his head. “Sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice.”

Athos chuckles. “Fair enough.”

He sits down beside d’Artagnan and watches the corgis with him for a while, clearly appreciative of their nonsense.

“If you need a distraction,” he says eventually, “I have a roof garden you can help me tend to. And kittens.”

 

The kittens are very cute, but they don’t hold d’Artagnan’s attention for very long. All they do is lie around and nurse. Nothing to keep his thoughts away from Constance for too long.

The roof garden on the other hand is amazing. D’Artagnan has always loved gardening, so he is the one who plants the wisteria while Athos looks on and compliments him on his technique.

It’s rather endearing how he appears to believe that that’s a normal thing to do. Complimenting another guy on his planting technique.

D’Artagnan doesn’t really know what to make of him. He’s never met someone like Athos.

He clearly comes from a privileged home, evident in the way he talks and holds himself, in the way he walks. But he’s not spoiled at all. He’s nice, and a little clumsy in the way he shows affection. It’s obvious he’s not used to inviting people up to his roof garden.

D’Artagnan really likes him.

So he plants the wisteria, waters it, and stands up.

The roof offers an amazing view over the park and parts of the city, and d’Artagnan stretches, enjoys the morning sun on his face in a way he hasn’t been able to until now.

“Coffee?” Athos offers, and d’Artagnan shrugs.

“I’m not really a coffee person.”

Athos looks appalled by the very idea.

“I shall make yours with vanilla ice cream,” he decides, and it’s evident that d’Artagnan better be appreciative of that decision. “I trust you are an ice cream person at least?”

D’Artagnan grins. “Absolutely.”

Athos nods. “Good.”

They go inside and wash their hands, and then Athos makes them coffee, allowing d’Artagnan to loiter around the living room in the meantime.

It’s a bright, open space, still as striking to d’Artagnan as it was when he came here the first time. It’s obvious that it’s home to three wildly diverging personalities - as straight-lined as Athos, as comfortable as Porthos, as brilliant and appealing as Aramis.

D’Artagnan automatically wonders how a home shared between Constance and himself might look, and he comes up blank. Because Constance doesn’t want to be with him. She’ll never share her life with him.

Athos must read some of those thoughts on his face, for he puts his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, not saying a word, squeezing gently.

Instead he brings d’Artagnan up to the roof once more, makes him sit in one of the deck chairs, makes him drink his ice coffee, and tells him the story of how he met Porthos. How they became friends. How Athos spent ten years of his life believing he would never be able to figure out how to be romantically involved with anyone and finally decided that he didn’t need romance, didn’t want romance. How Aramis blindsided him in a way he never believed possible.

“But I was not alone in those ten years,” he says, carefully avoiding d’Artagnan’s eyes, “and you do not have to be, either.”

His honesty is as amazing to d’Artagnan as his quiet earnestness. He has no idea what to say.

“Do not be impatient,” Athos murmurs then, and now he turns his head, now he does look into d’Artagnan’s eyes. “It will all work out in the end. Until it does, I urge you to enjoy yourself. Do not be an idiot. Be her friend.”


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos, when he comes home, looks a little surprised to find d’Artagnan on the couch. Not that d’Artagnan can blame him. He certainly didn’t plan to stay this long. He didn’t have any plan at all. But with one thing and another he somehow managed to spend the whole day with Athos.

They weeded the garden. They went out to buy another wisteria. They planted the wisteria. They sat on the roof and enjoyed the sun, then went inside and looked at the kittens again. Eventually they called d’Artagnan’s parents to prevent them from starting a search party when they realized his phone had died and contained a truly staggering number of missed calls.

D’Artagnan just wasn’t ready to go home.

“What’s this?” Porthos asks now, taking off his shoes. “Did his sister send him? Did we order another bed I don’t know anythin’ about?”

He walks over to Athos, who is preparing tea in the kitchen area, leans in to give him a kiss. “Don’t tell me you’re puttin’ a bed on the roof. You’re gonna give the Johannson’s a heart attack!”

“I am not,” Athos says pointedly, “putting a bed on the roof.”

D’Artagnan grins.

“I found him in the park this morning, looking morose. So I brought him home.”

D’Artagnan’s grin curls in on itself like a mimosa touched by probing fingers.

“That’s how it is, eh?” Porthos rumbles, instantly sympathetic. “You collecting stray puppies now? Aren’t the kittens enough for you?”

At that d’Artagnan stands up, stiff and indignant. “I should really go home now.”

“Oh no you shouldn’t,” Porthos protests immediately; and then he marches up to d’Artagnan, catches him by his wrist, and pulls him in against his chest. “I haven’t fed you yet.”

D’Artagnan pulls up his shoulders and presses both hands against that broad chest. “I am not a _puppy_.”

“Nope,” Porthos agrees, holding him easily. “You’re a stubborn young man sufferin’ from heartache. Now come here and gimme a proper hug.”

D’Artagnan really doesn’t want to give in to him, and yet he does. He has no idea why. Probably because Porthos is so damnably tall … and because of the way Athos talked about him earlier. His affection must have been contagious.

In the end it’s absolutely worth it. Porthos gives really good hugs. Warm. Substantial. D’Artagnan holds on to him far longer than he’d planned to, and only pulls back when Porthos starts to pet his head.

He scowls up at him, earning himself a good-natured grin in return. “How do you feel about chicken?”

“With salad and homemade fries,” Athos adds, lest d’Artagnan should be confused about the state of the chicken.

D’Artagnan straightens his shoulders. “I’m going to peel the potatoes.”

Porthos ruffles his hair again. “Good boy.”

D’Artagnan growls at him.

 

The food is almost ready when Aramis comes home.

He does so in a flurry of loving energy, makes out with Porthos by the front door for a full minute before he even notices d’Artagnan’s presence.

“Oh,” he says when he finally sees him. “I didn’t know we had a guest.”

He looks adorably guilty.

“I won’t go blind, you know,” d’Artagnan soothes him, silently wondering how it all works with the three of them living together like this. Doesn’t Athos feel like the odd man out between these two? “I’ve seen people kiss before.”

At that a smile blooms on Aramis’ face, shy and pleased. “Thank goodness.”

D’Artagnan really can’t blame Constance for picking him as her best friend. They’re polar opposites, and thus perfect for each other. … Maybe the whole thing with Athos loving both him and Porthos isn’t so odd after all.

“You’re staying for dinner, yes?” Aramis asks, advancing on the kitchen. “Ooh, chicken. _Nice_.”

He blinks at Athos, who pulls him in for a peck on the lips, and suddenly d’Artagnan feels a little lost. Not jealous, because he really likes the general feeling of these guys together, but … frustrated. Lonely.

“Aw, come here you,” Porthos says at that point, and how he managed to sit down right next to d’Artagnan without him noticing he has no idea. “It’s gonna be alright, I promise.”

He puts his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders and pulls him close, is so warm and sturdy and genuine about it that d’Artagnan can’t help but give in.

“You better not tell Constance about this,” he mutters against Porthos shoulder, curling into the embrace like the sucker he is.

Porthos chuckles. “Course not.”

“She would get jealous,” Athos agrees.

D’Artagnan promptly pouts. “Yeah. I know she has a thing about Porthos.”

“Please do not be an idiot,” Athos drawls. “She would be equally jealous of the both of you.”

Porthos pulls d’Artagnan a little bit closer and pets his hair again. For once d’Artagnan doesn’t do anything about it.

“As far as I’m concerned she might as well get in between this,” Porthos comments, and d’Artagnan promptly boxes him in the ribs, hot fury burning away his common sense.

“Don’t talk about her like that!”

“Like what?” Porthos growls, squeezing him a little too hard. “Like she’s a sensible woman who might enjoy a cuddle?”

D’Artagnan ducks his head, feeling like Porthos dunked him into a bucket of cold water, instantly restoring his common sense. “I’m sorry!”

“Yeah, you better be,” Porthos replies, true menace in his voice. “Don’t make this kind of assumptions about people - it doesn’t precisely add shine to your own character.”

Just like that d’Artagnan is feeling more miserable than he’s done in weeks.

“Porthos,” Athos drawls then, his voice a fine balance of gentle reproach and understanding fondness. Just that one word, nothing more.

Porthos relaxes immediately. He sighs. “Sorry about that, pup. You hit a sore spot there.”

D’Artagnan blinks against his neck, remembers Athos’ story from before, and the ones he told after that - finally realizes what Athos never really spelled out for him yet drew into every picture he painted with his words.

Porthos is protective of those he loves. He will not have them slandered. He doesn’t like anyone to be reduced to their sexuality, and that includes himself.

And d’Artagnan took his words and did precisely that, acted as if Constance was a thing to be had, as if Porthos had stated an intention to use her. He really has a lot to learn, last but not least to control his temper.

Since d’Artagnan is in his arms anyway, he takes advantage, clings to Porthos with everything that he has. Porthos makes a soothing noise at him and strokes his back.

“Are you two alright?” Aramis asks from the sidelines, sounding uncertain and a little worried, and it’s Athos who answers him, the earlier reproach in his voice replaced by amusement.

“I think they are establishing a hierarchy.”

D’Artagnan finds it utterly impossible to contradict him.


	3. Chapter 3

“If you want to, you’re welcome to stay the night.”

D’Artagnan startles violently. He’s on the couch by himself, a cushion in his lap, and he didn’t expect Aramis’ voice or anyone else's to penetrate into his daydreaming. Or rather late evening dreaming.

They had dinner together, he and Athos and Porthos and Aramis, which was delicious. D’Artagnan doesn’t feel any better for knowing that Porthos can cook.

Afterwards d’Artagnan helped clean the dishes, listening to Porthos recounting his adventures at the orphanage; and he’s never felt so at home in a place he actually has no business feeling at home at, especially because Porthos just has to be good with children as well, naturally.

These aren’t his friends. They aren’t even proper acquaintances. They bought a bed extension from his sister so they could have threesomes in it, for God’s sake!

Yet here he is, on their couch, fed and pampered and thoroughly cuddled by the guy he’s supposed to be jealous of, hugging a couch cushion with gold thread in its cover. Fancy shit.

Aramis, oblivious to this train wreck of thought, ducks his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I thought you were with the other two, cooing over the kittens,” d’Artagnan says, watching Aramis from the corner of his eyes as he sits down beside him.

As Constance’s best friend, Aramis is an object of endless interest for d’Artagnan. He wants to know how he ticks. He wants to know how he managed to get behind Constance’s defenses.

Because as far as d’Artagnan can tell, Aramis has no offensive weapons to speak of. Apart from his charm maybe, and that can’t be it. Constance is impervious to charm, d’Artagnan has tried.

Oh, how he’s tried.

“I was,” Aramis replies, and lifts his right to rake his fingers through his tangled hair, “and you didn’t answer me. Do you want to spend the night?”

D’Artagnan, who was very distracted by Aramis’ luscious locks for a moment there, doesn’t immediately respond. Then he blushes scarlet, none too sure as to why. It must be Aramis’ charm at work. Or the fact that he has really great hair. “I … I don’t think I should.”

Aramis blinks at him, and then he grins, understanding and amused. “We have a guest room, you know.”

D’Artagnan blushes even more. “Of course I know that! I didn’t think -”

“Didn’t you?” Aramis teases him, and then his face falls, and he grimaces. “Sorry.”

D’Artagnan is a little confused, but then again he’s only ever known Aramis flustered and skittish - and charming of course. There was bound to be another side to him.

“I don’t mind,” he says eventually, somewhat surprised by the utter truth of the statement. “I know you guys aren’t like that.”

Aramis promptly smiles at him. “Thank you.”

D’Artagnan finds himself smiling back, and makes a decision. “I would love to spend the night, actually.”

Because he still doesn’t want to go home, and this apartment is as close to a sanctuary as is possible with no gothic cathedral at hand.

The admission earns him another smile, almost beaming, and then Aramis stands up, radiating purpose. “Come on then, you can help me put clean sheets on the bed.”

D’Artagnan snorts. “That’s necessary, yes?”

This time Aramis is the one to blush.

D’Artagnan groans and wishes he hadn’t said anything. Aramis is surprisingly difficult to handle. Constance must command hidden quantums of patience and delicacy for her daily dealings with him.

 

“So. This was a guest room, and then it was your room, and now it’s a guest room again,” d’Artagnan says a few minutes later, admiring the handsome furniture while Aramis makes up the bed. “Do you even remember the last time you slept here?”

“I do, actually,” Aramis says, sounding soft and happy, and d’Artagnan’s chest constricts in an effort to contain a sudden burst of heartache.

Of course Aramis remembers. If it was d’Artagnan, he’d remember too.

Silence falls.

“I am really sorry that things haven’t worked out the way you want them to yet,” Aramis says then, sounding guilty. The way he stuffs the pillow into its cover looks so very viscous that d’Artagnan briefly fears for its seams.

He clears his throat. “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s not like it’s your fault.”

Aramis looks rather miserable all of a sudden, and allows the mutilated pillow to drop from his fingers. “But I think it is.”

D’Artagnan stares at him. “What? How?”

Has Constance been lying to him all this time? Is the reason why she doesn’t want to be with him that she’s in love with Aramis? Is _that_ why he’s the only one she’s ever patient with?

It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

If he’s to be dumped, he wants to be dumped for the right reasons.

“I don’t think she’d be quite as adamant about dating someone younger if it wasn’t for me,” Aramis mumbles pushing the pillow towards the head of the bed.

That makes no sense to d’Artagnan at all. He frowns. “But you’re older than her.”

Aramis huffs, and heavily sits down on the freshly made bed. “Yes,” he says, and then he presses both hands to his eyes and curls in on himself for a brief moment before he straightens and takes a shaky breath. “But I told her my story, didn’t I? She knows. She knows what a string of older lovers did to me.”

He turns his head, aims a sad smile at d’Artagnan. “And now she doesn’t want to do the same thing to you … and that’s my fault.”

D’Artagnan swallows dryly, unsure of what to say. It’s clear that the story Aramis is referring to isn’t a nice one, and while d’Artagnan doesn’t know the details, he certainly doesn’t want Aramis to blame himself.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, trying to figure out how to put his thoughts into words. “Maybe she wouldn’t be quite as adamant, as you said.” He clears his throat and moves, sits beside Aramis on the bed. “But that doesn’t make it your _fault_. It just means she cares about you - about what happened to you.”

He thinks about reaching out to Aramis, and doesn’t. He has no idea how to do this.

“Knowing that she doesn’t want to hurt me actually helps,” he murmurs. “Thank you for telling me.”

At that Aramis takes another shaky breath, and bumps their shoulders together. “I just thought you should know. She cares about you, I know she does.”

Once more there’s silence, and then Aramis groans, and drops backwards onto the bed. “Great. Now I managed to make you comfort me when it really should’ve been the other way around. Well done. Typical.”

D’Artagnan grins, and pokes him in the ribs. “You’re doing it again.”

Aramis smiles up at him, if a little crooked. “She really does like you, you know. I can tell.”

D’Artagnan pokes him a little harder. “Stop it. I’ve just decided to let her be. Don’t give me false hope.”

“It’s not false hope!” Aramis exclaims. “You just mustn’t be so pushy. That sets her hackles up. Patience is a virtue and all that.”

“So is silence,” Athos drawls from the door. “Or, if it isn’t a virtue, it is at least golden. And you like golden things, do you not, Aramis?”

D’Artagnan, suddenly supremely aware that he’s poking Athos’ boyfriend, hastily retracts his finger.

Athos smirks and leans against the doorframe. “What precisely are you doing over there?”

“Making the bed,” Aramis says promptly, still lying on his back. “Can’t you tell?”

“Porthos will be devastated that you deprived him of the opportunity to cuddle his new friend tonight,” Athos drawls.

D’Artagnan goes a little warm.

“Don’t tease him,” Aramis says, sounding gratifyingly protective, and finally sits up.

Athos looks surprised. “Why not?”

“Because I already did that,” Aramis replies slyly.

D’Artagnan sighs. “Can’t you enact your foreplay somewhere else?”

Of course that’s when Porthos shows up, wearing pyjama bottoms. D’Artagnan suddenly feels devastatingly scrawny and maybe just a bit … small.

“What’s this?” Porthos asks, completely unaware of his damaging effect to d’Artagnan’s ego. “Are we sleepin’ here tonight?”

“Maybe,” Athos says at the same time that d’Artagnan states, “Absolutely not.”

Porthos snorts. “You two have been teasin’ him, haven’t you?”

He sighs and walks over to the bed, picks up Aramis as if he weighed nothing, or perhaps as much as the mangled pillow lying at the head of the bed. He should be banned as far as d’Artagnan’s concerned.

Athos and Aramis would probably have a thing or two to say about that.

“Come on, kitten. Leave the boy alone.”

D’Artagnan has to fight very hard against the impulse to point out that he’s _not a boy_. Apparently he’s very sensitive today.

Porthos’ knowing grin is all teeth. “I’m gonna make you breakfast tomorrow. What do you want?”

“My dignity intact,” d’Artagnan grumbles. “Now get out. I want to sleep.”

Porthos chuckles, and carries Aramis to the door, where Athos is once more leaning against the frame.

“Have a good night, d’Artagnan,” he says and then they leave him, maybe not with his dignity intact, but definitely in a better frame of mind.


End file.
